The Memories Evoked

Current new fav single malt:
Springbank Rundlets & Kilderkins

This isn't quite the usual genre I like. But the author is known for his keen insights into the human psyche. His other book isn't so bad.

On the way out of the flat one evening, I grabbed this new book off the shelves. I would have to wait for my date, and that time would be sufficient to finish at least a cursory reading of it. This isn't a compilation of short stories. It's a novel. Didn't mind giving it a shot- 'The Sense of An Ending' by Julian Barnes. (Read reviews here, here and here.)

Protagonist Tony Webster was already in his sixties, and was willed a diary that belonged to his childhood friend Adrian, who committed suicide forty years ago. The diary came from the will of his ex-girlfriend Veronica, who had ditched him to date Adrian while they were all in college. But the diary was held on by Veronica. Complicated, much? Lots of why, why, why?! The premise of the story already promises you mind-boggling concepts that would pop up every other page, and reminds you of unresolved angst-ridden teenaged relationships which would become giant painful knots in adulthood.

The less time there remains in your life, the less you want to waste it. That's logical isn't it? Though how you use the saved-up hours...well, that's another thing you probably wouldn't have predicted in youth. For instance, I spend a lot of time clearing things up - and I'm not even a messy person. But it's one of the modest satisfaction of age.

The book begins 'back in time' to pre-college days, laying out the threads of friendships, names and connections. Chronologically, it develops into what happens at college, after and into present-day living, and the events that transpired as a result of this will which left the diary to the protagonist. It never is about owning an item, is it? It's always about the memories it evokes, and the eventual nostalgia.

Poignant. Excellent. Yeah, I had to read that book again.

One day, I said to the barman, 'Do you think you could do me thin chips for a change?' 

'How do you mean?'
'You know, like in France - the thin ones.'
'No, we don't do them.'
'But it says on the menu your chips are hand-cut.'
'Yes.'
'Well, can't you cut them thinner?'
The barman's normal affableness took a pause. He looked at me as if he wasn't sure whether I was a pedant or an idiot, or quite possibly both.
'Hand-cut chips means fat chips.'
'But if you handcut chips, couldn't you cut them thinner?'
'We don't cut them. That's how they arrive.'
'That's what I said.'
'So what you call "hand-cut chips" are actually cut elsewhere, and quite probably by a machine?'
'Are you from the council or something?'
'Not in the least. I'm just puzzled. I never realised that "hand-cut" meant "fat" rather than "necessarily cut by hand".'
'Well, you do now.'
'I'm sorry. I just didn't get it.' 

I retired to my table and waited for my supper.